


Treading Water

by cheerynoir



Series: Drowning!verse [13]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Finally, M/M, POV Second Person, Robb Stark is a Gift, Suicidal Thoughts, Theon Greyjoy is a trainwreck but good lord is he trying, Things Come Full Circle, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, communication!!, f e e l i n g s, hand holding, these boys talk!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 02:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11681811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerynoir/pseuds/cheerynoir
Summary: AprilThe more things change, the more they stay the same. It's been a year and four months, and Theon finds himself back on the bridge.





	Treading Water

April dawns blisteringly cold. Each night comes out with its teeth bared. You take to wandering when the shadows get long and the streets get barren. Your doctors put you on pills, but sleep eludes you six nights of seven. You tried cleaning like you had before, but—

(Robb started making concerned noises about the state of your hands two weeks after you moved in and the splints came off – the knuckles cracked, the skin red and chapped from the cleaning – so you found other ways to soothe him. His worry weighs you down like stones, even now.)

—you find you’ve lost the stomach for lemon-scented cleaner.

The outside world is still so terrifyingly large. The cabin was an entire universe – that there is more, you still can’t quite wrap your head around it.

So you wander instead.

The flip-phone Asha gave you weighs half a ton in your front pocket. The single key to Robb and Smalljon’s apartment burns against your palm. You carry nothing else, and the coat Asha dug out of storage smells like old cigarette smoke and dust.

You breathe deeply. It hurts, with air this cold, but in the best sort of way. What other choice do you have? Stop breathing? Right.

You left a note on the kitchen table before you left the apartment. The first time you went wandering at 2:43 AM, you came home at dawn to Robb mounting some sort of sleep-deprived search party with his roommate and Grey Wind, and he yelled at you for twenty minutes when you stumbled through the door, chilly but unharmed. He then apologized for forty, because of course he did.

So now you leave a note, and take your phone. Robb doesn’t like it, but Robb sleeps a lot more than you do.

You find yourself stumbling the long road to Harlaw, south and south again. The muscles remember what the mind longs to forget.

A year ago and four months ago, you stood on a bridge and wanted to drown – be it in black water or eyes as blue as summer sky.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Gods, Robb’s right. You sense of humour really has gotten worse.

_Ramsay’s still out here._

_Is that why I do this?_

Your footsteps scrape the frost-thick sidewalk, shattering the quiet that’s crystallized around you. You breathe slowly and relish the ache. Despite Ramsay, despite the blizzard, despite yourself – you’re alive.

It feels like it should mean more, somehow.

The sound of water brings you back. You find yourself on the bridge that connects Harlaw with the main-land, with only the burn in your legs and lungs to show you’ve stumbled the distance.

It’s been a year and four months, and no time at all. Phantoms haunt your every step. Memories cling like cobwebs, a haunting sense of Deja Vu you can never quite shake.

You feel yourself clamber up and up, over the safety barrier, numb fingers slipping on cold steel. The rust cuts at your palms. The water is as black as you remember. Snow drifts, caught in a lazy current. It wouldn’t be so lazy if you were caught in it – a childhood on the Iron Islands taught you that. 

Really, it’s a wonder you haven’t drowned already.

Footsteps – purposeful and heavy. A quiet jingling. The pant of breath. Then, a voice, carefully casual:

“Room for two?”

It’s Robb. You weren’t expecting him – 

Except maybe you were, deep down. But _shhh_ – it’s a secret. 

When you turn to look at him, you think you’re seeing double. Ramsay in his black coat and red scarf, his circle of hunting dogs panting at his feet. Robb, black coat and blue scarf and Grey Wind, sitting in his shadow, the leash slack in his fist. They both look up at you, their blue eyes intent, their shadows long and flickering.

Robb wears a beard better than Ramsay ever did. 

“Sure,” you say. You run your tongue along your teeth. They are whole again. Luwin recommended a miracle-worker. It could – and could not be – a year ago.

Robb gives the command and Grey Wind flops down, breath steaming in the chilly air. Robb clambers up beside you, over the rail. But his knuckles pale around it, clutching tightly where your grip is slack. Almost an afterthought.

“Bit late for a swim, isn’t it?” he asks you, staring down at the black water. The streetlights cut across his skin in orange sodium stripes. It’s too cold for snow, and his cheeks and ears are bright red with it.

“Bit,” you agree. The water murmurs, though whether it’s agreement or argument, you have no idea. Still haven’t picked up the trick of it. You sway closer, and his hand grips yours. 

The heat of him startles you. It shouldn’t, but it does. Always has.

The fact that he doesn’t flinch, holding your maimed hand – that startles you, too.

“Careful,” he says, but there is a quiet understanding there, in his summer-sky eyes.

“I can swim,” you tell him, soft. It’s one of the few things you can do better than him.

He offers a smile with one side of his mouth. His gaze flicks from you to the harbor and back, thoughtful. “I can’t,” he says, at length.

You inhale sharply and it hurts. The cold seeps into your lungs, frost spreading from the inside out.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, Theon,” he says. Old Gods and New, you love the way he says your name, even when he sounds like you’ve just gutted him. His eyes are warm, still water. Equally as inviting as the black stretch below. “You know I would.”

This is the boy who followed you into fights, into adventure and trouble and everything in between. He patched your knuckles when you split them on some unlucky bastard’s teeth, drank with you when one of your girls wouldn’t call. He laughed with you, played with you, fought at you side. Bound in blood, if not by blood.

He’d do the same for Jon, you know. Bran and little Rickon, too.

It shouldn’t sting, but it does. It’s good to know that even the cabin, even Ramsay, couldn’t take your selfishness away.

“I couldn’t,” you say. You stare down at the water, glinting in the moonlight. “With you, I couldn’t…”

They’re standing in the middle of the long bridge, buffed by the cold wind, a long way up. By yourself, you could probably survive the drop and the swim – for a while at least. With Robb…

Well. The papers would have a baffling case to report. _Local Fool throws himself after Drowning Man._

The corners of your mouth quirk, thinking it, but the smile dies when Robb meets your eyes, steady as a hammer.

“I know that too,” he says. Then: “Now and always, right?”

“Now and always,” you echo. It slips out softly, more sigh than statement. His fingers squeeze yours, and you squeeze back. He is so warm.

“You jump, I jump,” he murmurs.

It should be cold, the clarity – the lightning bolt realization of how far Robb will go for you. But instead it’s warm and slow, a creeping feeling. Like the latter stages of hypothermia. Or love.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Okay.”

He smiles and it’s a dawn long coming. You look away, biting the inside of your cheek.

Eventually, you let him tug you back over the rail, to safety. He doesn’t let go of your hand, not for a moment.

Grey Wind butts against your free hand, and you kneel down to pet him. His fur is warm and thick; you can’t help but bury your fingers in it. It is so different from Ramsay’s lean, hungry girls.

“Theon…”

You glance up. The cold seeps through your jeans, but your knees have had worse. Robb rakes his fingers through his hair, but his eyes are steady – and Gods, so open.

“I love you,” he says. He does not waver.

A smile cuts across your face. It doesn’t hurt like it used to, hearing that.

“Like a brother, I know,” you say. 

He winces. Rubs his beard. “No.”

“No?”

“I _love_ you, Theon,” he repeats. His eyes catch yours and hold with a queer intensity.

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. You stare, and know that it must be a slack-jawed, unattractive thing. Ramsay would laugh, would mock. Robb just smiles a little, red-faced. Sheepish, you think, but unashamed.

“Oh,” you hear. Your voice is ragged and tiny.

“Yeah,” he says. His blush deepens. You are charmed despite yourself, and there is a quiet warmth in your chest.

You’re smiling, you realize. But it – falters. Falls.

“But. Last summer,” you say. The words get caught behind your teeth. _You told me to stop._

Robb looks away. He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I was sad,” he says. “I had just been dumped, Theon. I loved Jeyne, whatever you thought of her. I wanted to – grieve, I suppose.” He pauses. His smile turns rueful behind his beard. You want to hate him, and can’t. You never could. “And we were pretty drunk. I wanted-” 

And here he falters, a green boy again, blushing, stumbling. You let your breath out slowly, and bite the inside of your lip. Hope is just another noose to hang yourself with, but you’ve got so good at tying knots—

“I wanted to remember it clearly, the first time I kissed you.”

You let out a shaking breath. Grey Wind licks your lax hand, whining.

“Oh,” you say. _Oh._

“Yeah,” he says again. He meets your eyes, and you feel the blood pounding in your temples. You face feels – hot. Unbearably so.

“Last summer,” he says. “You … you dropped off the face of the map, Theon.”

“Getting kidnapped does that to a person,” it’s out of your mouth before you can think better of it. Ramsay would have hit you for it, but Robb just smiles tightly down at his boots.

“Yeah. But – the report you gave…said you…that Ramsay… that it happened in late August, early September. I didn’t hear from you after June.”

There is a touch of guilt, somewhere buried deep. You touch your mouth, and stare down at Grey Wind intently. The dog licks your cheek, and you don’t flinch.

“I didn’t want to know I’d ruined it,” you mutter. “I … I couldn’t bear it. If you’d hated me for a stolen kiss.”

He huffs, but when you glance at him, he’s smiling a little. “Never,” he says. 

You believe him. Gods help you, but you do.

He offers his hand, slowly, like you might startle.

“Theon? Let’s – let’s go home,” he says. “Okay?”

“Sure, Robb. Whatever you want.”

He loves you. The thought pounds in time with your steps. He loves you. He loves you.

You let him lead you. When he hand finds yours, you clutch him tightly, and don’t let go. Your fingers tangle. Your shoulders bump with every step.

You make the walk in silence, though you can feel his eyes on you, warm as summer sun. The apartment is quiet and dark when you stumble back in, half frozen.

For a long moment, you stand in the living room, and Robb stands with you. You both stare at the fold-out couch, made up with your customary nest of quilts and fuzzy blankets. It had been a good week – all the covers on top the mattress rather than below it. But…

“Theon?”

“Robb.” It feels like the world has shrunk again – smaller than the cabin. The universe could be you and Robb and for the moment, you think you could live with that. Ramsay still walks free, but the door is locked and Robb is here, warm against your side.

“Do you want to…” He tugs at your hand gently, so gently. You sway into him, as you always have. As you always will. “It’s cold tonight.”

“Yes,” you say. _Yes._

He leads you to bed, and the ghosts of old evenings replay behind your eyes. He kneels to unlace your boots – there are no boots in my bed, new rule – but hesitates, his hands cupping your ankles.

“Your clothes,” he says, half a question. No doubt remembering the last time this happened. His hands on your ankles, bruises and rope-burn under your turtle-neck – all the signs he didn’t see. His eyes are dark, suddenly, caught somewhere between anger and sadness.

They’ll keep, you want to tell him. You’re not a pretty sight anymore. 

“My hands are numb,” you mumbled instead. “Could you…?”

He unbuckles your belt, and there is something like relief in the set of his shoulders. You kick out of your jeans, skin stinging from the heat of the room. His hands find the hem of your hoodie, and you lift your arms obediently.

After, you curl up together, close as quotation marks. Close but not touching, except— 

Robb’s hand finds yours under the quilt. Your fingers lace together, and it’s only after that he relaxes. You hear him breathing in the dark, and you shift closer before you can stop yourself.

He loves you. He loves you. He loves you—

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake, you are still glad for it.

**Author's Note:**

> And there it is! This has been a long, wild ride guys. But drowning!verse is now complete. There's an epilogue coming, and hopefully soon.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who kudos', commented, and beta-read this train-wreck. i couldn't have done it without you.


End file.
